Sometimes it’s nice to take a look back and reflect on where you were in your life a year ago to observe how much you’ve grown (or not grown). I am doing that today which has inspired me to share this silly story.
This day last year, I went on a date with a multi-millionaire. And it was ridiculous.
Who was this guy and how did I stumble upon him, you ask?
At the time, my friend was working as a personal assistant to this crazy rich guy with crazy demands. She spent her days shopping for him, getting his cars washed and essentially just wiping his ass. I was just a bartender at the time and doing some freelance production work. (In LA, if someone tells you that they do freelance production work, it’s just a really fancy way of them telling you that they are unemployed.) To come to the point, a lot of my days were free so I would just cruise around with her and watch rich people be rich people- it was actually pretty fun.
I had also just broken up with someone who I thought was supposed to be the love of my life, so I was pretty sad and needed to keep busy and stay around people. A year later, I just let go of another someone who I thought was supposed to be the love of my life, so clearly my rationality levels haven’t changed much. Anyways, I was pretty heartbroken and didn’t want to date anyone else. I just wanted to drink whiskey, cry and watch Rachel McAdam’s movies. My friends were getting pretty tired of me being hungover by 4pm so my friend told her crazy rich boss to take me out to dinner. At first, I was like, ‘absolutely no way.' Then, we went to happy hour. After I got a couple drinks in me, she convinced me, ‘it’s just dinner, you don’t have to marry the guy.’ So, I drunkenly agreed to go to dinner with her rich asshole boss. What’s the worst that could happen?
Day Of Date:
I for sure wasn’t taking the actual date seriously but I did know that I wanted to look GOOD. I mean, it’s not like we were going to Panera. I started getting ready at about 3pm. I wore my most comfortable wedges from Marshalls and some skinny jeans with a 20 dollar backless top I bought on Melrose the day before. My whole outfit put together probably cost 80 bucks. (But trust, I made it work.) From there, I pretty much just raped my face with foundation and then dipped it in bronzer. I had hair extensions in, fake eyelashes on and tit cutlets--just enhancing everything to make me look like I kind of, sorta, maybe fit in to wherever we were going. If someone were to ask me that day, “are those real?” it would have been quite the loaded question. But man, did I look good.
He picked me up in his 911 Porsche convertible and his entire outfit loudly expressed that it cost more than my entire life savings. I was a little nervous because it’s not really my style to just go out with a total stranger (unless we met on Tinder) all I knew about this guy was that he was a needy rich asshole who drove my friend nuts. Nevertheless, he was being very sweet to me, so masal tov! Let’s do this.
We went to dinner at some bougey steakhouse where Beyonce eats. My friend had told him/warned him that I’m a big vodka drinker so he ordered me a Grey Goose Cosmo and it came with dry ice and this made Kelly very happy. I had four of them in less than an hour and didn’t feel bad about it at all. I mean, this guy had to know that I needed to be fucked up to live through this evening.
As the Cosmo's were flying back, he was becoming more and more interesting and my jokes were getting funnier and funnier. I tend to like people who like me so I wasn't hating this guy, I was actually enjoying myself! I also knew this mother fucker was going to feed me right, so I showed up with an appetite. I don’t know if any of you have drank with me before, but I don’t just eat when I’m drunk, I EAT when I’m drunk. Bring on the steak brotha!
I don’t remember too many details, but I do know that there was a seafood tower and a 600 dollar bottle of wine. I sure do love my wine, but no wine is worth that much money. My 300sq foot studio apartment at the time wasn’t worth that much money. Do you know how many wedges I could get from Marshalls for 600 dollars? This guy was trying to get his dick wet and he wasn’t fooling anyone. I started to feel slimy for even being there with him, I was totally that girl-the young niave girl in Hollywood wearing Forever 21 out to eat with a sleazy old rich guy. I could feel the servers talking about me and judging me. It felt similar to college when you'd walk past a clique of girls from your rival sorority on a Monday afternoon in the library after a weekend of blacking out and embarrassing yourself and maybe making out with one of guys that they were in an undefined relationship with. Perhaps you can visualize the look I’m talking about.
The bill came and I’m not exactly sure how much it was, I just know that I saw a comma. (Yes. A comma. On dinner.) He dropped me off and I went right to my bathroom and threw up. Looking back, I should have sold my puke. If there is anything I learned that night, it’s that sometimes it takes waking up on your bathroom floor to realize what a catch you are.
The bill came and I’m not exactly sure how much it was, I just know that I saw a comma. (Yes. A comma. On dinner.) He dropped me off and I went right to my bathroom and threw up. Looking back, I should have sold my puke. If there is anything I learned that night, it’s that sometimes it takes waking up on your bathroom floor to realize what a catch you are.
Day After Date:
My birthday was just a few days away (July 5, message me for my address and you can send gifts). He asked me if I wanted to go on his private jet with him and go to Cabo. Well, I would like the private jet and I would like Cabo but I didn’t want him to be there. At this point, I was viewing him as a cool buddy to have, but the thought of kissing him or even just touching him made my vagina curl up into a dry dusty ball. It actually stressed me out. Like, my vagina felt like it needed a cigerette just thinking about letting him enter us. I don’t care how much I drank or how much I was in Cabo, nothing was going to make me attracted to this guy. His American Express was a different story. I politely declined his offer to Cabo and he said, "Ok, well I'll get you something else instead." After just one date, this dude bought me a pair of Christian Louboutins (which are like 1300 dollar shoes at least) to wear on my birthday. I don’t know what he was smoking thinking that I would wear those on my birthday-I have my game face on for my birthday and sandals it is!
I can’t imagine what I would have gotten if I slept with him. Actually, I probably would have gotten a Mercedes G Wagon and a nose job.
What's my problem with all of this?
I was well fed, groomed, massaged and owned a pair of shoes that only escorts and celebrities have--but I hated everything about it. The outside of me loved it. I loved Instagramming my shoes, I loved telling the story to my friends...but the inside of me felt shitty, he did all of those things voluntarily but I still felt like I was using him. I felt like one of those hoes that Chris Brown keeps whining about. Those hoes really aint loyal.
I felt like it was wrong to accept all of these lavish gifts from a person I had no intention of sleeping with (don’t worry, I’m not an idiot--this decision was made after the spa day). I told him about how I didn’t feel right accepting the shoes because I wasn't romantically interested in him and that I was going to return them. This made him irate. He went off on me and called me ungrateful and said that I had issues with men. Um, first of all, his first tip on my "issues with men" should have been the fact that I was going out with him in the first place. I’m pretty sure not fucking him and not accepting the shoes was me doing something that my father would actually be proud of, so Bye Felicia. I went to the store to try to return the shoes. Long story short, they did not accept returns so I’m stuck with these ridiculous shoes that are just sitting in my closet reminding me of the puke I should have sold.
Moral of the story:
Los Angeles has a reputation for being populated with some of the worst human beings. This is because it’s a materialistc town where you are judged by how much money you have, or come off to have. In reality, your true character is regardless of the enviornment you are in, you choose to be the kind of person you want to be. From my experience, money makes people crazy. Although this guy was waking up in a Beverly Hills mansion every morning and driving the nicest cars and wearing the most expensive clothes, he was not happy. His money was all he had. Money became his character, what he thought women would see in him and what he used to impress them. There is no reason for a man to be dropping that much bread on a 22 year old girl he knows is only there for the story to tell/blog to write. He enjoys being 'the rich guy'. Pretty pathetic. If anything, rich guys intimidate me because I know it’s not my personality that’s going to sell them, it’s probably my personality that’s going to ruin any chance I had in keeping them. The purpose of the date was just to have a fun night and try to move on from the guy I was upset about. It had the opposite affect. I would have rather been sitting at a sticky Quizno’s with the other guy than at some fancy Hollywood restaurant with the rich guy.
The whole situation just made me feel uncertain about what the hell I was doing in LA in the first place. Reflecting a year later, I still don't know what the hell I'm doing in LA--but I think it's the same thing I would be doing anywhere else- sitting at work, not working and blogging instead. But fuck, it is nice out!
Two Truths And A Lie:
I’m not mad about the stores no return policy. I did however exchange the black pair he got me for a nude pair. The purpose of this wasn’t solely so I could get two Instagram pics out of it, making everyone think I owned two pairs.
In a really good place, (I think?)
Kelly.
